Launch Code

ELEVEN

Friday 29 November 2019, Day after Thanksgiving, Norfolk, England

‘Oh, shit.’

Toby opened his eyes and rolled over. His wife was sitting up in bed scowling at her iPad.

‘What is it?’ he asked her.

‘You know that acquisition I’m working on? In France?’

‘Yes.’ Alice was always working on some acquisition or other, and they were often in France, since she spoke good French. She was good about never being too specific, at least until deals had been announced. Confidentiality.

‘They want to make an announcement to the market Monday morning.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Don wants me to come in later today and Saturday to work on it.’

Toby sat up, rubbing his eyes. ‘Have you told him you can’t? He of all people should understand it’s Thanksgiving.’ Don was American. Alice worked for an American law firm.

‘That’s the problem. He’s in the States, so he can’t do anything. The problem is the stupid client doesn’t realize it’s Thanksgiving.’

‘And what country does the stupid client come from?’

‘Britain.’

‘What are you going to do?’

Alice sighed. ‘I’m going to have to go in.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Toby. ‘Did Don ask you or tell you?’

‘He asked me.’

‘Well then?’

‘Don’t guilt-trip me on this!’ Alice said. ‘I know we should stay here. But unless I go back today, there’s a good chance the client will lose the deal.’

And that would be Alice’s fault. Or she would believe it was her fault. And a deal falling through because it was her fault was not something Alice could countenance.

‘OK,’ said Toby. ‘I won’t guilt-trip you. I promise.’

Alice’s glare softened. She reached out for Toby’s hand under the covers and squeezed it. ‘I’m sorry, Toby. I know you’re worried about me. I just don’t have any choice.’

‘I know,’ Toby said. He knew she really didn’t want to let her family down. That was why she was upset: because, forced to choose between client and family, she was going to choose client and she hated herself for it. ‘You wouldn’t leave now unless you had to. And your dad and sisters will know that too. Shall we go after breakfast?’

Alice leaned over and kissed Toby on the lips. ‘Thank you.’

Alice made pancakes for breakfast. American pancakes, small and round and thick, topped with thin rashers of bacon and maple syrup – real maple syrup from Vermont, brought over on the plane the day before by Brooke.

Alice’s strategy was to pick off her family members one by one as they dribbled in to the kitchen. Toby could see them all question her decision, but none of them spoke their doubts out loud. They knew they couldn’t argue with Alice on this one.

A look nearing pain crossed Bill’s face when she told him. She said she was sorry and gave him a hug.

Not for the first time Toby resolved that when Beachwallet became a proper company with lots of staff he wouldn’t make them work over Thanksgiving. Or Bastille Day. Or Yom Kippur or Eid. Hell, he would give them St George’s Day off.

The front door banged and Justin appeared, followed by his wife. ‘Jeez. This town is crawling with cops,’ he said.

‘Well, we saw two of them,’ said Brooke.

‘Two is crawling for Barnholt,’ said Bill.

‘Must be investigating Alice’s pancakes,’ said Maya, who was wearing disconcertingly skimpy nightwear.

‘Oh and, Dad,’ said Brooke. ‘There’s a leak in the faucet in the bathroom in the Cottage. It’s nothing big, but I thought I ought to tell you.’

‘Thanks, Brooke. I’ll take a look.’ He grinned at Toby. ‘One thing about living on a submarine. You learn how to take care of leaks.’

The doorbell rang, and Rickover started barking.

‘Sounds like you were right, Maya,’ said Bill. ‘Quiet, Ricky!’ He went out to the hall and they heard the murmur of a man’s voice asking if he could come in.

Bill led two men into the kitchen, Rickover inspecting their heels, and explained that it was Thanksgiving and his family were staying with him. One was a couple of years younger than Toby. He was slim and fair-haired; he wore a suit and tie, and he spoke with a slight northern accent. His accomplice was old enough to be his father and was in uniform, the paraphernalia of the modern policeman hanging off his large frame on a belt and stab-proof vest.

They introduced themselves as DC Atkinson and PC Easter.

‘Can I offer you guys a pancake?’ said Alice.

‘They are good,’ said Maya.

The younger policeman glanced at the pancakes and at Maya and seemed to like what he saw on both counts, but he shook his head.

‘I’m afraid we have some bad news,’ he said. ‘I believe you know a gentleman by the name of Sam Bowen?’ He directed the question to Bill.

‘Yes,’ said Bill. ‘Or at least we met him for the first time yesterday. He spent Thanksgiving with us. Why? Has he had an accident?’

That must be it, thought Toby. A head-on collision on one of those treacherous bends on Norfolk roads, some idiot overtaking when they shouldn’t. Maybe Sam was the idiot? That didn’t seem likely.

‘No, not an accident,’ said the young detective. ‘He was killed last night at the King William. Stabbed. We believe it was murder.’